Bel Canto
by Aedammair
Summary: Mahogany and umber are the colors of Morse's love for Joan Thursday; the world is nearly always a gorgeous autumnal sunset when she's near him.


**I spent the entirety of Endeavour's fourth season yelling at these characters - loudly enough that I'm sure my neighbors heard me and added yet another item to the list of reasons I'm likely crazy.**

* * *

" _If you look for perfection, you will never be content." -Leo Tolstoy_

Morse has always viewed the world in variations of color; there is no room for the starkness of black and white in Endeavour Morse's constantly calculating brain. Happiness is the soft yellow golden light of evening as it filters through his windows while Puccini fills the empty spaces. Sadness was the grey-blue morning on the days his parents died, the foggy hue of loss as tangible as the tears on his sister's face.

He sees the browns and blues of the nick in terms of purpose and ease; Morse is most himself when seated behind his desk, the intricacies of a case laid bare before him. He knows he works too much, that he puts his time as a copper high above his time as a brother, a son, a lover. He bears this burden as penance for his misspent youth; had he loved less and worked more, then perhaps his past would not haunt him so often.

He finds he cannot match contentment to any specific hue of color – it is the one emotion that seems to escape his ever-seeking grasp. And he _has_ sought it, though not as fervently as he once did. It leaves him baffled at times when he catches glimpses of what he suspects it to be – a couple holding hands as they stroll down the high street, a smiling parent entranced by a giggling babe. He wonders if he should want these things but cannot bring himself to think it.

"Not all things are intended for all people," his mother once told him. It made him sad at the time to hear the wistfulness of missed opportunities in her voice. Now, all these years later, he believes he understands it.

So, while Morse may not view the world in black and white, he certainly understands the darkness that creeps in at the edges. He fights against it every day.

* * *

Joan Thursday arrives for their promised lunch wearing a coat the color of a roaring fire, a melody of gold and red that sings to him an aria of warmth and promise. She wears her dark hair down, the soft curls reaching towards her pink-cheeked face from under an ivory woolen beret, which is pulled low to cover her ears against the early November chill. He finds himself staring at her from the doorway, cold air swirling past him as his brilliant, articulate mind fails him. Mahogany and umber are the colors of Morse's love for Joan Thursday. The world is nearly always a gorgeous autumnal sunset when she's near him.

"You're staring," she says, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her red mouth.

He flushes immediately, caught and embarrassed. He looks away from her face before he can stop himself, steps aside to allow her into the small basement flat.

"I didn't say you should stop," she whispers as she brushes past him. His eyes return to her face, sure he'll find a teasing smile there. Instead, she radiates sincerity and it mingles with her floral perfume in a heady cloud of vague realization: Joan Thursday _sees_ him.

She walks fully into the flat and he follows, closing the door against the chill. He follows her into the tiny sitting room, finds her trailing well-manicured nails along the spines of his books. It feels intimate, an act he associates with knowledge of and comfort within another person's existence. He swallows hard against the ache of need rising in his chest.

"Have you read any of them?" he asks, speaking aloud before he can stop himself.

Those wandering fingers cease and tap against the weathered, cracked spine of _Anna Karenina_. She turns to smile at him, a small smile. He should have guessed: the brutal wanderlust of the soul who strives for greater. He knows all too well that feeling, knows how it can tear you apart when your heart and mind desire different things. It was this feeling that led him to London, the same feeling that brought him back to Oxford.

"I've read it twice now," she says, her voice soft and weighty with things unsaid. "Once before and once…" She does not say what they both know, does not have to – he was there that day and is the only other person who knows there is a before and an after. "It was a different book the second time."

Joan's sadness is the faded blue and white of hospital linens, the cold sunlight that filtered through sterile windows and gave no warmth. It has taken her nearly a year to come back from her "after," but he sees pieces of the Joan from before – it exists within the coffee breaks she shares with her father, the bridge games she attends with her mother, the easy way she jokes with her brother. Her family has no knowledge of what Joan lost a year ago and she gives them no clues. That is _her_ burden to bear.

"You look skinnier," she says, changing the subject, and he unconsciously smooths his hands along his sweater. She frowns. "You're not taking care of yourself."

This is, perhaps, partly true – he's barely a day beyond solving a case. He shaved for the first time in three days this morning, ate a solid breakfast (more than tea and day old toast) for the first time in nearly a week. Mrs. Thursday sent extra sandwiches in with her husband, so he at least managed a solid lunch, but he will fully admit to having lost himself for the better part of two weeks.

"Nasty business at the college," he says. "I…"

"You disappeared down the rabbit hole," she says, understanding, and he could kiss her right then for the simple way she says it. "Lunch and a bit of cake, then," she says and motions towards the coat rack nearby. "Bundle up, Morse – it's frightfully cold out there."

* * *

They gorge themselves on Scotch eggs, fish and chips with vinegar, and two huge pieces of tea cake dusted in sugar and cardamom – all washed down with two pints of a dark bitter each. He feels as though he could curl up under the table and take a nap, so full is his belly and his heart. They spend their 90 minutes at the pub sharing stories and when they stand to take their leave, he feels as though he knows the woman beside him better than anyone else he's ever met.

"Shall we brave the chill for a walk through the college?" she asks, pulling the beret down over her ears once again. "You can show me where you studied and filled that brain of yours with brilliance."

They wander through Oxford and he gives her a history of the grounds where he spent the earlier part of his adult life. He tells her stories of running between lessons, of professors with unreasonable expectations and drawers full of liquor, of poor choices made in the dining halls. The more she laughs, the warmer his heart grows until he has to unbutton his woolen coat to cool down. His face hurts from smiling (and, perhaps, the cold); his chest aches from laughing. He had not previously realized how witty and amusing Joan was – though, to be fair, his greatest amount of time spent with her prior to today was locked in a bank vault and fighting for their lives.

The day dissolves into early evening as they continue to wander the cobblestone streets. Her arm winds around his, sharing his warmth as the sun leaves them. She leans her head against his shoulder when she laughs, squeezes his arm when he says something self-deprecating. The color of their afternoon is a brilliant pink mixed with lilac hues as the sky welcomes the darkness of evening.

"I never thanked you," Joan says as they approach his flat. Her arm is still wrapped around his and he tenses as she says this. She must sense it for she pulls away and faces him.

"For lunch?" he asks, clueless.

She shakes her head. "For last year," she says. "For carrying my secret as quietly as you have." She reaches out and takes his hand; he feels the contact in his soul, sees the glow of mahogany and umber surround them both. "For respecting me enough to keep it to yourself and to only ever ask if I am well."

He shakes his head, humbled. "Unnecessary, Ms. Thursday."

The indigo of late evening settles in around them, a blanket of quiet as the business of the city slows. She stares at him, then, and he feels the scrutiny like a veil. He's being weighed and measured, which is an odd feeling for a man who is used to being the scales.

"Enough," Joan says.

A single word and Endeavour Morse's life changes. She reaches for his lapels and before he can even register what's happening, Joan Thursday pulls him into her orbit.

"For the last time," she whispers, her face a hair's breadth away from his, "call me Joan."

When she kisses him, Morse sees the brilliant silver of stars behind his eyes; his hands come up to cup her face and hold her solidly in place – he needs this to be real, needs to feel her lovely skin and dark hair under his hands. He's dreamt this moment too many times, awoken hard and lonely in the emptiness of his flat. But this – this is absolutely real.

He turns his head, deepens the kiss, and finds himself falling well and truly over the cliff when she moans softly against his mouth. She regains the upper hand when her tongue gently touches his lips and he opens to her, the kiss quickly becoming something far more intimate than what he deems appropriate for a front stoop.

They break apart, breathless. "Tea?" he asks, his voice thick with a desire he's tried so hard to ignore, to push away. She giggles, rests her forehead against his chest. He smooths his hands along her shoulders, runs them along her spine, the wool comforting against his cold skin.

She leans back to look at him, her blue eyes wide and full of an expression he can't quite place. "Tea."

He watches her as she takes his keys from him and unlocks the door, stepping inside the flat and turning lights on as she goes. He pauses in the doorway, his eyes following her as she unbuttons her coat and turns to hang it on the coat rack as though she has always done this. When she realizes he hasn't followed her inside, she turns to look at him and tilts her head, puzzled.

"Endeavour?" she asks and the use of his given name makes him smile.

They curl up on his bed with tea and the weathered copy of _Anna_ Karenina. "'All happy families are alike,'" she begins, his head resting in her lap and the book open to the very first page. "'Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way…'"

She runs her fingers through his hair as she reads, her voice settling over him like a calming quilt. He feels his eyelids grow heavy. He smells her perfume and the bergamot of the tea, feels the warmth of her under his cheek. All his wandering brought him here and he knows now what this is.

Contentment is the pale pink of Joan's cheeks as they flushed under his gaze, the milky beige of the tea within the chipped green cups that once belonged to his mother, the deep sienna of the book resting against her hip, the ivory of the bedspread beneath them and the ceiling above them. He sighs and lets himself slip fully into the quiet of a sleep well and truly deserved.


End file.
